


Explanations of an Unusual Kind

by JezebelGoldstone



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampires, Alternate Universe - Werewolves, Drama, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Vampires, Vampirism, Werewolves, descriptions of violence, lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JezebelGoldstone/pseuds/JezebelGoldstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is determined not to let his flatmate out on the town tonight--- but Sherlock can't seem to get it through his giant head that leaving right now would be a really, really bad idea. Whether John is more confused than Sherlock is anyone's guess.</p><p> </p><p>Gift fic for raafling, via the Johnlock Gift Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Explanations of an Unusual Kind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raafling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raafling/gifts).



> Author's Note: This story was written for raafling (go check out raafling.tumblr.com--- it's fun and funny!) for the Johnlock Gift Exchange. I sincerely hope you like it, deary! If anyone's curious what the prompt was, you can find it in the notes at the end of this work (it gives away part of the plot, see).
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to Sir A C Doyle, the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch. Story is my own.
> 
> Miyako Toudaiji, World's Best Beta, deserves some sort of award for what surely must be the fastest and most thorough beta ever performed on this work. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own, I assure you.

“Case, John! _Case_!” Sherlock bellowed, in the same tone normal people would say ‘fire,’ or maybe ‘good porn.’

John sighed, marked his page, and clambered off his bed. He glanced out the window before going downstairs, to find Sherlock already putting on his coat and scarf.

“Lestrade just texted me the details, I don’t know how the Met ever solves a single case without me, honestly, John, you’d think _someone_ down there would have realized the thieves would be moving their inventory midnight tonight, really, there are so many people employed at the Met that sheer numbers dictate _someone_ ought to be able to at least _guess_ correctly some of the time, but apparently one of the only qualifications necessary to get hired is a complete lack of intelligence---”

John cut off the tirade by saying, “Lestrade is fairly intelligent, and what do you mean midnight tonight?”

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. “John, please tell me that you’re not so incurably idiotic I actually have to explain the concept of midnight.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. John stood his ground, feet firmly planted in the doorway leading to the stairs and the wide world, arms crossed on his chest.

“Your wording is appalling, John,” said Sherlock. Then, apparently dismissing the issue (and John, too, for that matter) as unimportant in the face of a new puzzle, Sherlock made to brush past him.

“Sherlock, I’m serious,” John said, gripping the doorjamb to keep Sherlock from leaving. “You can’t honestly tell me you’re going _out_ tonight!”

“ _Thieves_ , John,” Sherlock said very slowly, looking at John intently, as though through sheer willpower he could make John grow a few extra IQ points. “Of course I’m going. You’re coming, too.”

“Sherlock,” John said, then stopped. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to breathe deeply and not shout. “That is incredibly, incredibly irresponsible, even for you.”  
  


“How on earth is putting a few thieves behind bars _irresponsible_? You of all people---”

John sighed. “Oh, don’t give me that.” He dropped his hand to glare at Sherlock. “That’s all well and good. That’s fine. What’s not fine is _you_ going out _tonight_.”

For a long moment Sherlock didn’t say anything, he simply continued staring at John as though he’d suddenly started speaking Klingon.

“What’s wrong with me going out tonight?” Sherlock asked.

John could feel the blood drain from his face.

Sherlock was a superb liar; John had seen more than enough evidence to convince him of that. But if Sherlock was going to try and wheedle his way out of the flat tonight, this wasn’t the way he would go about doing it. He would have ranted on about his iron self-control and amazing focus, rather than denying the whole thing.

“Shit,” said John. Then, when it occurred to him that he and Sherlock had been living together for exactly twenty-eight days, “ _Shit!_ ”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to brush past John _again_ , which was just not on. John grabbed his bicep and hauled Sherlock away from the door into the living room. The fact that Sherlock didn’t protest--- well, he did protest, loudly, but what he protested was John not allowing him to leave, rather than the fact that John was holding his arm--- pushed John a bit further away from the overwhelming panic and a bit closer to the confusion that was John’s near-constant state since moving in with Sherlock.

Honestly. First there’d been the _blatant_ flirting in the lab at Bart’s, the over-eagerness to shoehorn John into his life, and then the ‘married to my work’ speech and uncomfortable looks whenever John tried to flirt back. But then John had shot a man for Sherlock, and there’d been the definitely-a-date celebratory Chinese dinner afterwards, and then . . . nothing.

John understood. He did. Rather, he would have understood Sherlock wanting to avoid a romantic entanglement with him, and he also would have understood Sherlock throwing himself headlong into such an entanglement. What John did _not_ understand was the bloody back-and-forth Sherlock pulled once every hour. Every minute, it seemed sometimes.

Over the increasingly more vocal protests, John shoved Sherlock down in his chair. Without looking around he reached one leg behind himself to snag the chair from the computer table with his ankle and drag it over so he could plonk down on it in front of Sherlock.

“If you do not sit still this instant I will staple your hands to that chair,” John said, shoving Sherlock back for the third time. “I fucking mean it, Sherlock Holmes. You are not leaving this flat until we have a little chat. Okay?”

Sherlock glared at him, but after a moment he seemed to read the dead honesty in John’s eyes, because he rolled his own and bit out a curt, “Fine.”

“Right,” said John, nodding to himself. Then, when no other words came to mind, “Right. Right.”

Christ, how was one supposed to go about telling one’s flatmate he was a werewolf?

John had known the moment he walked into the lab at Bart’s, of course. The scent was difficult to ignore, or misunderstand. And Sherlock had been so cool, so calm and confident in his own skin, had never mentioned it but just acted like--- like he’d been a werewolf for years. John had simply assumed.

And God in heaven was he kicking himself for that now.

“Christ,” John hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose again. Then, at Sherlock’s impatient huff, he opened his eyes.

Sherlock was glaring at him. His chin was tilted down, his hair a wild tangle, his eyes like chips of ice, his skin pale and smooth and dammit all, John couldn’t freak out on him. This was going to be bad enough without John’s histrionics added to the mix. He may have only known Sherlock for just under a month (God how had John not seen it before. . .), but it was John’s responsibility to protect the mad berk, even from himself. John could do this. He would.

John did a few quick calculations in his head, then said, “Twenty-nine days ago, someone bit you.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over him from head to heel, then back up to meet his own eyes. The corners of his mouth just barely turned up. “Impressive,” he said. “Less impressive if you figured it out when we first met, more impressive if you’ve only just figured it out now. How do you know?”

“We’ll come to that,” said John. “The thing is--- Shit, what _time_ is it?” John dashed for his laptop, suddenly realizing they may only have an hour or so before the sun went down.

When he turned back towards Sherlock, laptop on his arm, Sherlock looked--- a lot of things. A lot startled. Maybe a little scared. Definitely intrigued. And. . . yep. Predatory.

“How did you _do_ that?” Sherlock demanded.

“Do what?” John asked absently, being sure to move slowly and normally as he walked back to the coffee table.

“How did you move so fast? It was--- less than a _second_ , John, from here to there.”

“Oh. Right.” The entire time he’d lived with Sherlock, John had studiously avoided any sudden or too-fast movements, not really sure where the pair of them stood on the whole. . . _fighting_ issue. Sudden movement could startle a werewolf, even one as controlled (or so John had thought) as Sherlock into reacting violently. And sometimes a fight that wasn’t started out of hatred or actual fear could turn into. . . something just as physical, sure, but not so. . . confrontational. But now, in his haste to make sure he wasn’t about to have a rabid first-time werewolf in the middle of the flat, John had gone for his computer as fast as he could. Which was very fast indeed. “One second and then I’ll tell you.”

“John,” Sherlock growled impatiently, and it sounded decidedly less human than normal. John tried not to shiver.

He finally got the correct webpage up, found the exact time of moonrise over the UK, checked the time, and sighed with relief when he saw they had a whole three hours.

“Okay,” he said, setting his laptop on the table beside him and turning back to Sherlock, “I’m about to tell you something crazy. I’ll give you a little time to digest the idea, and then I’m going to figure out a way to prove it. Okay?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Figure out a way? Really, John? It’s a wonder you manage to dress yourself in the mornings.”

John didn’t laugh. Maybe he should have. But there was nothing funny about any of this. “All right,” said John. Impulsively he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, which were bracketing Sherlock’s. He laid his hands on the other man’s knees and stared up into his mercurial eyes. “Listen. I know this sounds crazy, but. . . you’ve heard of werewolves and vampires and fairies and all that other shit, right?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

“Okay. How much do you know about them?”  
  


“Enough,” Sherlock said dismissively. “I’ve read summaries of the more popular drivel, as well as doing some light research into the cultural and mythic basis for many of the stories.”

John gaped. He couldn’t help it. “Wait--- what, really?”

Sherlock snorted. “Yes, obviously. You’d be amazed how many acts of violence are explained by voluntary lycanthropic or vampiric ideation gone too far.”

Now it was John’s turn to snort. “Yeah, I don’t think I would be. But. Okay. See. . . the thing about all those things is. . . they’re real.”

Sherlock was so scientific, so coolly logical. . . how on earth would he handle something like this? By blowing it off, of course. No, the question wasn’t how would he handle it, the real question was how on earth John was going to convince him it was true.

He stared up at Sherlock expectantly, aware of the fact that his expression must have had a pleading edge to it and wholly unable to do anything about that.

After a moment Sherlock snapped, “Yes, all right, fine, what else?”

John gaped at him. “You--- _You believe in werewolves_?”

Sherlock sighed and bent his head, like John’s idiocy was physically paining him. “I don’t disbelieve in them.”

“And a double negative,” John said. “Right. I knew this wouldn’t go well.”

Sherlock huffed, almost seeming amused. “What I mean to say is that I lack sufficient data, John. I’d say everyone does, in fact. Science, you know, can never truly prove or disprove anything; all it can say is that one scenario is more or less likely. Given my present data, lycanthropy seems highly improbable. However, I have no data sufficiently trustworthy that comes close to _disproving_ lycanthropy, either.”

“What you’re saying, in plain English,” John said slowly, “is that you’re open to the idea?”

Sherlock huffed again, and really did smile this time. “If you must put it so crudely, John, then yes. I have no opinion one way or another, and no reason at all to form an opinion. What’s this all about?”

John hesitated. It would be difficult to convince Sherlock that he was a werewolf because there would be no irrefutable proof until he changed, and by then it would be too late to protect him or anyone else. John needed some other form of proof, something else to make Sherlock believe being a werewolf was at least _possible_ , so that they could begin to prepare for the change.

So John took a deep breath, looked him in the eye, and said, “I’m a vampire.”

Sherlock didn’t bat an eye. “Prove it.”

John changed his face.

He couldn’t see himself, but he didn’t need to. He knew what he looked like. It was like a scowl, but so much worse: his skin retained its normal color, but became twisted and ridged, brows becoming wrinkled, cheekbones more pronounced. More noticeably, though, his eyes became a gleaming yellow (not gold, not ochre, not orange, not butterscotch, not yellow-ish, but actually yellow, yellow as the center of a daisy) and all his teeth grew to pointed fangs.

Sherlock didn’t move. His eyes darted rapidly over John’s face, though more than once they also dropped to take in John’s stance and body language. John forced himself to remain calm, relaxed, and above all non-threatening.

After a few moments Sherlock still hadn’t moved, and above all hadn’t _spoken_. That was when John realized that, for the first time, he was seeing what Sherlock looked like when he was actually speechless.

John grinned. He couldn’t help it. Not the best idea, though, when he was trying to convince someone he wasn’t a threat and his mouth was full of fangs.

Sherlock flinched. Just barely, but it was still there.

“I don’t believe it,” John said. “Mr. Punchline is confronted with his vampiric flatmate and doesn’t have something to say about it?”

All at once Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John’s mouth and he leaned forward, clearly intrigued. “How did you do that?” he demanded.

“Do what?”

Sherlock pointed at his lips. “That. Speak clearly with a mouth full of fangs.”

John grinned again, but this time Sherlock seemed to appreciate it, since it afforded him a better view of John’s teeth. “Height of mortification, that is,” John said. “Only _really_ young vampires lisp around their fangs.”

Sherlock was still staring at his mouth, and his hands made a few abortive gestures, fluttering in his lap. It wasn’t until Sherlock’s fingers brushed his own that John realized he was still clasping his flatmate’s knees.

He pulled his hands back into his own lap, then rolled his eyes and said, “All right, fine, go a head, but just for a minute.” Then he leaned forward and opened his mouth.

Without a hint of hesitation Sherlock opened his magnifying glass, took John’s chin in his left hand, and proceeded to give John’s mouth a thorough examination. Having him so close--- his hand on the skin of John’s chin and jaw, his breath ghosting into John’s open mouth and down his throat, all his attention focused solely on John, _examining his mouth_ for Chrissake--- made John wish, not for the first time that month, that he could control himself better around his flatmate. Or that Sherlock was a vampire instead of a werewolf. Or that Sherlock showed some blatant interest. Or that John was braver. Or something. _Anything_.

John had to close his eyes against yet another surge of desire when Sherlock began rattling off everything he was seeing--- length of each tooth, which areas of which teeth were serrated and which weren’t, function of each tooth--- and extrapolating from there everything about vampiric evolution, eating habits. . .

It took a few seconds, especially since John didn’t want to hurt him, but he was finally able to wrench his jaw out of Sherlock’s grip.

“Stop, stop stop. Stop talking for one second, Sherlock.”

“But _John_ , do you have any idea---”

“The experiments you could run? Yes, yes I do. No, shut up for a second. Look, you have---” he glanced at the clock “---fifteen minutes _exactly_ to ask me whatever you want, and then there’s something else I have to tell you.”

Sherlock was smiling, his eyes gleaming, looking like he was about to vibrate out of his own skin with excitement. For the next fifteen minutes, John was glad he was a vampire, if only because he didn’t think a vanilla human would have been able to keep up with how fast Sherlock was speaking.

Yes, John drank blood. No, he did not drink human blood. Yes, he could if he wanted to, but no, he refused to do so. Yes, John was inhumanly strong and fast. Yes, John had been a vampire for a long time, but no, he would not say how long. Yes, vampirism did come with some regenerative properties. Yes, that would make it nearly impossible for him to have a limp, but if Sherlock would stop being a git for a moment he might remember that John had never _denied_ it was psychosomatic. No, it was not possible to cap a tooth that had been chipped--- one had to remove the tooth entirely and wait for the blasted thing to grow back in (John had some experience with this). Yes, Stoker had it right: the only way to be turned into a vampire was to drink a vampire’s blood; being bitten by a vampire had nothing to do with it. No, he most _emphatically_ did _not_ sparkle in sunlight, and how the hell did Sherlock know about that anyway? No, obviously he didn’t spontaneously combust in sunlight, either, but that wasn’t a vampire thing. It was more a--- family thing. A Watson trait, as it were. No, John was not going to explain. He ate normal food because he liked the taste, thank you very much, and because Sherlock needed to eat, too.

To John’s surprise, it was Sherlock who called off the grilling, by saying, “Fifteen minutes are up! What else do you have to tell me, John?”

John hesitated again. Sherlock looked--- well, the way he always looked when he got a new puzzle, but this was almost better. This was _ongoing_ ; he’d be able to run experiments on John for _months_ and they both knew it. Clearly Sherlock thought that he wouldn’t be bored for a long while. John changed his face back to normal, trying to repress a sigh at the thought of wiping that smile off Sherlock’s face, taking that mad gleam from his eye. God, it wasn’t like John had turned Sherlock into a werewolf, but at this moment John hated himself simply for having to say it.

“Look, Sherlock,” he began, then sighed. He glanced at the clock. Two and a half hours. Shit. Unable to help himself, and unsure whether he was doing it for Sherlock’s benefit or his own, John leaned forward again and took Sherlock’s hands, holding them gently on Sherlock’s knees. He looked Sherlock in the eye and said, “You aren’t human either.”

Sherlock’s face scrunched up. “I’m not a vampire. I would have noticed.”

John laughed. “Yes, I suppose you would have. But you’re not a vampire, either. You’re--- you’re a werewolf, Sherlock.”

Sherlock continued staring at him intently, still thinking, but after a few moments he said, “I don’t think I am, John.”

“You are,” John said. Firmly.

Sherlock shook his head. “I know you think I don’t take very good care of my body, John, but I _do_ keep track of it, even if I choose to ignore it. I would have noticed such a tremendous physiological change.”

“I don’t doubt you would,” John said, trying not to sound soothing since he knew it would piss Sherlock off. “But you haven’t changed yet.”

“Then I’m not a werewolf,” Sherlock said clearly, like John was the idiot here.

John shook his head. “No, you--- you’ve already got the virus. You must have been infected--- Jesus fucking Christ, the _day before_ we met. You were already a werewolf the first time we met, but you hadn’t gone through a full moon yet. You’re infected, but you won’t actually _change_ until the moon rises the night before it’s full.”

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow. “Not the full moon itself?”

“Oh, you’ll change then, too. Three nights a month it’s impossible to control the change. The night before, the night of, and the night after the full moon.”

“That’s---” Sherlock’s eyes did that thing, that little flicker that looked like REM, which John knew meant he was seeing data scrawling in front of him more quickly than anyone else vanilla would have been able to keep up with “--- that’s tonight.”

“Yes,” John said gently, squeezing Sherlock’s hands. “Yes it is.”

“I’m going to turn into a werewolf tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Tonight.”

Repetition. Shit. He wasn’t taking this very well. “Yes.”

Sherlock tried to take his hands from John’s, no doubt to dive for his phone, so John said, “I already checked. Moonrise is in almost exactly two and a half hours.”

Eyes going suddenly distant, Sherlock nodded. “We’ll have to move quickly, then,” he said, and John breathed a sigh of relief. At least Sherlock understood that part of this whole mess. But John’s relief turned to worry when Sherlock continued, “I suppose I won’t have opposable thumbs anymore, so it will be up to you to collect the correct samples, but I’ll get all the equipment you’ll need and give you detailed instructions so you’ll be able to---”

John had started shaking his head almost as soon as Sherlock started talking, and now he finally released one of Sherlock’s hands to press a (vampirically firm) finger to the mad genius’s lips. “Shut up for a second, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth snapped closed and he glared, but at least he remained silent.

“Listen,” said John, removing his finger to wind his hand around Sherlock’s again and hating himself even more for having to say all this, “there will be plenty of time for experiments later. I’ll even help with them, I promise. Anything you want as long as you don’t hurt yourself. Anything at all. But this time, Sherlock, no experiments.”

“What? Why not?” Sherlock’s eyes turned sharp, glaring at him.

John sighed, and tried not to look away. “Being a werewolf is--- different from being a vampire, or a vanilla human. It’s--- It’s about control.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, John, I’m sure I’ll be able to handle it.”

“You don’t understand,” said John, leaning forward earnestly. “There is nothing you’ll be able to do about the first full moon. Nothing at all. You’re going to loose control of yourself entirely, Sherlock. Become--- beastial. Things that you repress are going to come to the fore. The harder you’ve repressed them, the more violently they’ll come out. That’s actually why I didn’t say anything when we met,” John confessed, feeling unreasonably that Sherlock had to understand this. “You were so well-controlled I just assumed you’d been a werewolf for ages. I’m sorry.”

“John, I assure you, if anyone can keep themselves under control in these circumstances, it’s me.”

“I know you think that,” said John gently, “and in any other situation I’d agree with you. But this is--- it’s _different_ , Sherlock, I don’t know how to make you understand that. It’s magic; it’s supernatural. There’s no controlling the first time. And even after that, it’s going to take a lot of practice.”

Sherlock nodded briskly. “Fine. I suppose I’ll have to bend to your experience in this matter,” John grinned at the way Sherlock said the words, as though they were poison. “What usually happens the first full moon, then? Killing spree?”

John shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s different with everyone. You don’t just--- become a wolf and leave yourself entirely behind. It’s more like--- your body changes forms, and your mind is--- it’s still itself, you’re still _you_ , but you have almost zero impulse control. Anything you really want to do, any deep desires, you’ll do. Or try to, anyway. The animal comes out. For some people, yes, that leads to a killing spree. For others it’s more sexual. For others it’s something else entirely. I once knew a guy who would just _run_ , run so far and so fast he’d end up half a country away by morning.”

“But you don’t know,” said Sherlock quietly, still watching John. “You’ve never experienced it yourself. You’re just guessing.”

“I’m passing on what others have told me,” said John. “I’ve talked quite a bit with quite a few interesting people over the years, Sherlock. I’ve got as good a grasp on the situation as any non-werewolf ever will.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes going absent. John could tell he was slipping into his Mind Palace, but he couldn’t allow that. Not yet. They had to make arrangements, first. “We still have to decide what to do about tonight,” John said.

“Hmm? Oh,” Sherlock said, eyes snapping back to the present. “We’ll just stay here. Obviously.”

“That’s not really an option,” said John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you agree with Donovan and the rest of the Met and think I’ve got some latent serial killer instincts. I’m not going to murder anyone.”

“I don’t think that, you know I don’t,” John said sharply. “It’s not true. But it’s a big physical change. Your body’s going to go through a lot. And you’re not going to be able to control the change, to do it calmly. Not to mention after that you’re going to have to learn to control a quadrupedal body, among other things.”

“So?”

“ _So_ even if you’re gentle as a kitten our flat would be a ruin by morning,” John said, suddenly having to repress the urge to giggle at the idea of a giant, cuddly Sherlock-wolf.

“Our flat is _already_ a ruin, or so you say.”

“It would be more of a ruin. And just imagine what might happen to your experiments and lab equipment, if you had a giant dog wandering around in here that wasn’t entirely able to control himself.”

Sherlock actually shuddered. “Right. We’ll go away, then. I’ll call. . .” He trailed off. Then he said, apparently to himself, “Mycroft? Should I call Mycroft? How would Mycroft react to all this? No doubt he’d be able to arrange something, but with only. . . two and a quarter hours to convince him. . . and he would definitely take some convincing. . .”

“There’s another option,” John said.

Sherlock looked at him. “Which is?”

“I can stay with you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, _of course_ you’ll be staying, John. Don’t be dense.”

“I don’t think you quite realize what you’re saying,” said John, though something in his chest made a funny sort of movement at Sherlock’s words. “You’re going to completely loose control of yourself, Sherlock. Do you really want me to see that?”

Sherlock looked away. John had never seen him avoid eye contact before. It was unnerving. “I understand if you’d rather not. I can call Mycroft.”

John shook his head. “No, I--- of _course_ I want to stay. I mean, it won’t be pleasant, but after all I _am_ your doctor.” They both smiled a little at the weak joke, before John continued quietly, “I won’t leave you, Sherlock. Not unless you want me to.”

Sherlock knit his brows. “Why would I want you to?”

“Do you trust me?”

Now Sherlock turned to look at him. “Of course.”

John nodded briskly. “And I trust you. So. We’ll stay together for this full moon?”

Sherlock considered for a moment, before saying, “Obviously it’s not ideal, but it is better than anything else I can think of.”

“Okay,” John said. “We’ll need to pack a few things and leave quickly, but I know this little place out near Mildenhall. . .”

Fifteen minutes later, an hour and forty-five minutes before the moon rose and Sherlock became irrevocably a werewolf, they were standing just inside the door to their flat, debating transportation.

If John’s hair had been longer, the pure venom in Sherlock’s voice would have made it curl. “ _I am not letting you carry me!_ ”

“It’s the only way we can get past Mycroft’s cameras!” John said for what had to be the fiftieth time. “I can run faster than you’d believe. And it’s not like I’d be carrying you bridal style or anything. Just climb on my back, and we’ll go too fast for the cameras to pick us up---”

“Absolutely out of the question! We’ll get a cab and then walk, I know plenty of ways to throw him off our trail---”

“Do you want to change in London?” John demanded, more harshly than he’d intended. “Because that’s what’s going to happen if we don’t hurry. You’ll be a newly-formed giant predator surrounded by squishy humans. If we had all day, sure, we’d do it your way. But as it is don’t you think it’s best to be cautious?”

“I thought you said I wasn’t a serial killer.”

“I thought you said you trust me.”

Sherlock’s mouth closed with a click. He glared for a long moment, then said, “Fine. _Fine_. But no one is to _ever_ hear about this. And if Mycroft’s cameras somehow do catch us, I will figure out how to kill a vampire and put the knowledge to good use.”

John just grinned. “Fine by me.”

Sherlock may have been underfed and skinny as a rail, but he was still a full grown man and half a head taller than John, so carrying him was literally no light matter. John wasn’t worried, though, even if he did have to carry Sherlock and both their backpacks all the way to Mildenhall. He’d positively gorged himself over the last two days in preparation for his first full moon with Sherlock. He was glad, of course, of the extra energy, even if he had been secretly hoping that the energy would be put to. . . somewhat different use. Possibly still involving Sherlock clinging to John’s back and lots of panting and. . . no. Stop. End thought.

It was ten minutes to moonrise by the time they finally reached the abandoned hangar just outside Mildenhall proper. Not that there was much in Mildenhall that Sherlock would be able to harm--- most of the residents were supernaturals of some sort, and all the rest had a firm grounding in the practical applications of supernatural defense. John knew the local pack and had called ahead (the pack Alpha, Bill Murray, was a friend of John’s since Kabul). The rest of the wolves would keep away from the hangar for the duration of the full moon this month. As for Sherlock--- John had vouched for him, so he was John’s responsibility. No use thinking about what would happen if John failed to make good on that.

“Right,” said John, trying to call up his doctor-voice and tap into the endless reserves of patience and not-panicking that he’d developed over the course of half a lifetime as a doctor and a soldier. “There’s food in my backpack if you get hungry, but for crying out loud let _me_ get it, since I’ll still have opposable thumbs. And don’t go outside. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow, but not until we figure this out a bit. And remember that you’re going to be confused and disoriented and have no impulse control. And remember that I’m here and it’s okay. I’ll take care of you, all right? There’s nothing to worry about. Just try to relax. Remember that you trust me. Remember I’m here.” John literally bit his tongue when he nearly said, ‘Remember that I love you.’

Shit. Did he? Did he really love Sherlock?

Sherlock hissed, clenching a hand to his stomach, and John shoved all thoughts about his own feelings away as he helped Sherlock out of his coat and scarf (the trousers and shirt were replaceable, Sherlock had insisted when they talked during the trip, but the coat must not be harmed) and tried to prepare them both for what was about to happen.

When the change happened it was. . . John was near to screaming. He hadn’t realized it would _hurt_ , hurt so badly John himself would physically ache. He’d seen werewolves change before, but they’d all been older and (now he thought about it) it had always been a voluntary change. He’d never seen the first, moon-forced change of a new werewolf. And he’d never heard Sherlock scream. John almost couldn’t take it.

Seven agonizing, excruciating minutes later, John looked at the body of the man he loved (dammit) in wolf-form for the first time.

Sherlock shook his head, muzzle lifted into the air. Then he turned, and for the first time since the change had begun he opened his eyes. For the longest moment of John’s life, they simply stared at each other.

 

Sherlock lunged.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> To my chagrin, I have not stuck with a single mythos in this fic. I've mashed together elements from Dracula (Bram Stoker), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Joss Whedon), Soulless (Gail Carriger), and (one of the most underrated and amazing books ever published) Sunshine (Robin McKinley), as well as some logic of my own. (Props to whoever can figure out which bits come from where.)
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, I strongly suggest you watch or read the above, as well as checking out these two works here on AO3:
> 
> "Like Glue" by goesaward
> 
> "Man and Beast" by Jupiter_Ash
> 
> This work wasn't necessarily inspired by those, but they were certainly influential. It was, however, inspired by the prompt from the wonderful raafling, which was: "werewolf!Sherlock; vampire!John optional." Of the three possible genres, I selected AU (obviously) and Smut (coming to that in chapter two nopunintended).
> 
> As always, thanks for the read, and reviews are love, and concrit is quite welcome!


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